


Now That You've Met The Best (You Won't Ever Covet Less)

by suchaprince



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Series Two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-30
Updated: 2011-04-30
Packaged: 2018-01-24 21:41:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1618010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suchaprince/pseuds/suchaprince
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In that moment his whole world had become, simply, a little less boring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now That You've Met The Best (You Won't Ever Covet Less)

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written to accompany the Sherlock/John fanmix I made for ciaranbochna. 
> 
> (you can get the mix here: [livejournal post](http://suchaprince.livejournal.com/18312.html) | [direct download](http://www.lolisandpotts.com/folder/M/NowThatYouveMetTheBest.zip) | [listen on 8tracks](http://8tracks.com/suchaprince/now-that-you-ve-met-the-best-a-sherlock-john-fanmix) | [tumblr post](http://suchaprince.tumblr.com/post/5089775416/now-that-youve-met-the-best-a-sherlock-john))

  
**ONE**   


It took a matter of seconds for Sherlock Holmes to deduce the recent history of one John Watson, but the question of what was to be John Watson’s future had the most unusual of answers.

Answers that surprised even Sherlock himself.

  
**TWO**   


As John Watson walked away from Lauriston Gardens he found it safe to say that Sherlock Holmes was the most fascinating man he’d ever met.

He was also fairly sure that that assessment was just about the only thing _safe_ when it came to Sherlock Holmes.

  
**THREE**   


The moment Sherlock looked across the crime scene to lay eyes on John Watson, the moment he realized who the shooter was, _that_ very moment was life changing.

Sherlock was surprised. Sherlock was impressed. Sherlock was very nearly giddy. 

In that moment his whole world had become, simply, a little less _boring_.

  
**FOUR**   


It’s been one month and two days since he’d moved into 221b Baker Street and John Watson has once again found himself at his flatmate’s side down a darkened London alley. Sherlock has been typing away oh his mobile for the last five minutes, voicing various thoughts out loud. John, on the other hand, has simply been trying to get the feeling back in his fingers while waiting for Sherlock to determine where the next drop-off point will be.

In the midst of Sherlock’s frantic pacing he stops momentarily to force something into John’s hands.

It was Sherlock’s coat.

“Oh,” John looks up at the taller man, “Thank you.”

Sherlock says nothing in response, but no more than six seconds later the detective lets out an “Aha!” and takes off back down the main road. John barely has time to slip his other arm into the coat before he chases after him.

  
**FIVE**   


Sherlock is annoyed. Previous experience would suggest that John Watson would jump at the chance to spend an evening tracking down a mysterious Chinese assassin, but apparently he was wrong.

Sherlock dislikes being wrong. 

Sherlock now knows that John would rather spend his evenings dating attractive women.

Sherlock dislikes this even more.

  
**SIX**   


John Watson is sitting on the very lovely Sarah Sawyer’s couch when he sees the explosion at Baker Street on the news.

The whole world stops.

A moment later he is off running.

  
**SEVEN**   


John is looking at him in a way he’s never really looked at him before.

Ah, _disappointment_.

Why does John have to be so dreadfully emotional while someone else is being so beautifully interesting? It isn’t fair. John Watson is often Sherlock’s favorite thing to think about, but not today. Not right now. There are far more interesting things in the world than John Watson’s disappointment.

But he still wishes he would stop looking at him that way.

  
**EIGHT**   


For a moment he couldn’t speak. For moment he was drowning. For a moment it was three months earlier and anything and everything that had ever mattered in his life was over and gone and all that was left was feeling empty and meaningless.

And then Sherlock asks for help.

A moment passes and John almost stays lost, almost stays being _nothing_ , just to spite Sherlock.

But he doesn’t.

  
**NINE**   


Sherlock waits and waits and plays his part until John finally leaves the flat.

He pulls out his laptop. 

_Found. The Bruce-Partington plans. Please collect. The Pool. Midnight._

  
**TEN**   


Since his capture John Watson’s brain has been running through every escape strategy he could think of, planning and plotting and constantly re-evaluating the situation, anything to figure a way out of this.

An hour passes, maybe longer, and then he hears the door to the pool swing open. _Sherlock_.

The dreadful voice in his ear tells him that it’s show time. 

John walks out into the open, his eyes silently pleading a soldier’s cry for help.

  
**ELEVEN**   


There’s the explosion. And then there’s the pool. And all he is aware of is water. So, so much water. And chlorine. And it burns.

He shuts his eyes.

 _John_.

He opens his eyes again to take in more of the scene. The chlorine still stings, but he needs to know. Needs to see.

And there, not two feet away, is a shape that very much resembles one John Watson. He moves towards it and brings them both to the surface.

Mycroft’s men have arrived. 

Jim Moriarty is nowhere to be seen.

John Watson is still breathing.

And Sherlock Holmes notices that his own heart is still beating.

  
**TWELEVE**   


They take a cab home from the hospital.

They are battered and bruised, but very much alive.

John Watson smiles.

  
**THIRTEEN**   


It’s been three weeks since the pool and Sherlock Holmes is thinking.

Not that he isn’t always thinking, but this particular bit of thinking is rather significant. It’s significant because of all the conclusions Sherlock Holmes had expected to come to, this was not one of them. He has surprised himself.

He was thinking about Moriarty and his games and where he was and how to find him. He was thinking about how he should feel intrigued and impressed and fascinated and delighted. (And he did.) But he was also angry. 

Angry because he had very nearly taken John from him. 

He _had_ taken John from him, if only for a few hours.

And if there was anything Sherlock didn’t want to lose, it was John. He couldn’t lose John. He didn’t think he’d be able to function anymore if he didn’t have John by his side. In his flat.

Sherlock Holmes needed his brain and his eyes and his ears and his hands and he needed John Watson.

And that was something new.

  
**FOURTEEN**   


They are running for their lives, they are laughing, and it’s glorious.

Five months ago John had thought he’d never feel alive again. He had thought he was _nothing_.

Then he met Sherlock Holmes.

And now? Now he is running next to a madman and loving every minute of it.

It felt like home.

 _Sherlock_ felt like home.

He had since the day they meet.

  
**FIFTEEN**   


It is nearly midnight in 221b Baker Street when Sherlock finally realizes what the feeling in his chest means. He sits up with a start.

“I think I’m happy.”

“Happy is good.”

“I’m not sure about that.”

“At least happy is better than bored? I would think anything would be better than bored for you.” John gives an awkward smile before he turns back to his book.

“Hm.”

“Any idea to what has caused this happiness of yours?”

“No.” Sherlock lies.

“Well, if being happy disagrees with you, I’m sure you’ll find something to make you feel dreadful again soon.”

“I didn’t say this _happiness_ thing was _entirely_ unpleasant, just that I hadn’t made up my mind about it yet. I might end up liking it.” Sherlock gives him a side-glance, but the doctor remains silent.

A moment later, however, the detective notices John smiling into his book.

  
**SIXTEEN**   


John Watson has found himself tied to a chair, back-to-back with one Sherlock Holmes, in the dismal basement of some very angry smugglers.

“No clever ideas to get us out of this yet?”

“Still working on it.”

“Well I hope you come up with something soon. There’s a match on tonight and I was planning-“

“A rugby game. Is that really what you’re worried about?”

“Well, missing the match is less stressful for me to worry about than, oh I don’t know, our impending deaths?”

“Our impending deaths. Those are much more interesting. Think about what those would involve and maybe you’ll inspire me to think of the something clever that will get us out of this basement.”

“Well, if we die here now you’ll never get to go to that medical oddity museum I promised to take you for your birthday.”

“I _was_ looking forward to that.”

“I knew you were.” 

“Well that’s certainly motivation. What else?”

“If we die here tonight, I really _will_ miss the match.”

“Really, John.”

“What? I can’t think of anything else I’d be missing at the moment.” 

“I can. If we die here tonight you’ll never have the chance to marry a charmingly dull lady, father six charmingly dull children, and grow _incredibly_ fat. I know you must be looking forward to that more that the _match_.”

“That probably was never going to happen anyway.”

“Hmm. And why not?”

“Because I’m fairly sure I’ve accidently fallen in love with you.”

“Oh.”

“Sorry about that.”

“No don’t be… that’s…” Sherlock pauses “That’s fine.”

“Fine?”

“Very fine. More than fine. It’s… good.”

“Oh.”

“More than good, actually.”

A heartbeat later the door is kicked open and Inspector Lestrade appears at the top of the stairs.

And things are _more_ than good.

  
**SEVENTEEN**   


The most common word that came to mind when Sherlock Holmes thought of John Watson was _new_.

He would say something and it would inspire something _new_.

He would do something and it would inspire something _new_.

He would laugh. He would run. He would overpower. He would speak. Stumble. Move. Kiss. Yell. Fight. Surprise.

He could be incredibly gentle.

He could be incredibly boring.

He could be incredible.

It was all _new_.

And it was _wonderful_.

  
**EIGHTEEN**   


Since their conversation in the smuggler’s basement some days have been very-not-good-awful.

But, more often than not, their days are more-than-fine-good.

And the best days have been oh-god-yes-just-give-me-more-days-like-this.

This morning John Watson woke up to oh-god-yes-just-give-me-more-days-like-this.

Unfortunately, he ended it with help-me-Sherlock-I’ve-been-knocked-unconscious-by-Jim-Moriarty.

  
**NINETEEN**   


John was missing. It had been days now and he was still gone and they weren’t any closer to finding him.

Why wasn’t he closer to finding him? Why wasn’t there a thread to lead him to where he was? It was like he had become depended and now he was going through withdrawal and his work was suffering and the only way to get another hit was to solve the case, but he couldn’t solve the case without another hit and he hated it.

And John didn’t just leave, right? He wouldn’t have just left. He couldn’t have just left. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t written in his DNA. It just wasn’t. John wouldn’t leave.

No. 

No, no. 

No, no, no. 

Sherlock knew who had him. It was the only explanation. The only one that worked. It was him. Had to be him. Of course it was him. He knew it was him. Had known it was him. Had only doubted for a moment, but no of course it was him. Of course, of course. Just had to go about finding him.

And then he would find John.

  
**TWENTY**   


Jim Moriarty was no longer in the building.

But Sherlock Holmes was.

Sherlock Holmes and Scotland Yard were moving into the room as John climbed to his feet.

“Hello,” He took a step forward, “Took long enough.”

Sherlock smiled.

  
**TWENTY ONE**   


“He got away again.”

“He did.”

“What do we do now?”

“We run like madmen until you think of something extremely clever or I do something incredibly brave,” John laughed, “And if that doesn’t work, we'll just head home.”

“Maybe Mrs. Hudson will take pity on us and make tea?”

“We can only hope.”

  
**TWENTY TWO**   


John Watson was a mess.

Four days with no comforts other than the hospitality of Jim Moriarty was not ideal for one’s health.

But John Watson was happy.

Sherlock opened the door to 221b and led him upstairs.

John Watson was home.

**Author's Note:**

> ( _Originally posted at livejournal on 4/30/11_ )


End file.
